


When Will You Come Home

by writteninblood



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Blindness, Cancer, Character Death, Dogs, Dreams, Family, Forgiveness, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Going to Hell, Internalized Homophobia, Letters, Loneliness, Loss, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Old Age, Older Characters, Pets, Repression, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Terminal Illnesses, Wakes & Funerals, heart condition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 14:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13953165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninblood/pseuds/writteninblood
Summary: Their story was always tragic, and even when they get old, fate isn't any more forgiving.





	When Will You Come Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verovex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/gifts).



> **First and foremost: the tags on this fic are important because this story deals with some very dark themes, so please check for triggers.**  
>     
> This started out as an idle comment in a conversation with Vero where I said "I want that 'I drink my readers tears mug'" to which she responded "if you can make me cry, I'll get it for you." And so, this is my 11k attempt at making Vero cry (we're good friends. Really). For a mug.
> 
> I've poured my heart and soul into this story, and regardless of whether you cry or not, I hope you enjoy your gift, Vero ♥

Sunlight streams into the room. Edward can sense it on his eyelids, as he lies in bed, slowly waking up. He’s much more perceptive to the brightness of the days now, something he never really paid attention to before. As he stretches, there’s a whining close to his face. This is shortly followed by panting, and a great slobbering lick up his cheek. 

“Oh come on girl, don’t do that.” Though he’s smiling as he says it and reaches out to pet his dog, Enigma. “All right, I’m up, I’m up. Let’s get you some breakfast.”

Edward feels for his robe on the back of the door and pads into the kitchen, feeding Enigma before setting about making his own breakfast. He lived in the apartment for ten years before he completely lost his sight, so he knows where everything is, can follow his same routines easily enough. He prepares all of his favourite things, because diet really doesn’t matter today. He’s been looking forward to this meal all week. 

He lays out a spread of toast, jam, croissants, ham, cheese, fruit, his favourite coffee and some fresh orange juice. It smells delicious, and he can tell that Enigma is more interested in his breakfast than her own, by the way she nuzzles at his knee. Edward feeds her little bits and pieces as he slowly makes his way through the feast, savouring the way everything tastes. He knows it’s not good for her, but he figures he can give her treats, just this once. She has been such a good companion to him. 

When he’s done, he puts all of the dishes and cutlery in the dishwasher and meticulously cleans all the surfaces. He takes out the trash and makes sure everything is clean and fresh. It’s imperative that the apartment looks as nice as possible when he leaves it, because the next person who sets foot in it won’t be him. Can’t have anyone thinking the famous Riddler was a slob. 

Once he’s satisfied that everything in the main living area is up to standard, he takes a shower and heads back into his bedroom to get dressed. He’d hung his suit of choice on the wardrobe door, his well-polished shoes at the bottom. After the effort required to clean the living area, he has to sit down on the bed for a few moments. Edward needs to remember to pace himself, and not to do too much at once. He wants to make sure he actually gets to his extremely important engagement today. 

Enigma jumps up onto the bed next to him and he indulges her and gives her a good scratch. She enthusiastically nuzzles and licks his face again. He allows it. This is their last private moment of affection. The thought makes his heart ache. Edward nuzzles back and murmurs, “thank you for being there for me.” She barks and puts a paw on his leg. “Thank you for putting up with an old fool like me.” She lays down across his lap, and it almost feels like she’s physically trying to stop him from leaving, as if she knows once he goes out that door, he’s not coming back.

Edward leans across to the nightstand and presses the button on his cube clock. It tells him the time in a tinny voice. Only an hour and thirty minutes until he has to be at their meeting place. He had better get a move on. 

“Go and wait in the living room,” he says, gently and regretfully nudging her from his lap. “I’ll be out in a moment.” Edward listens to her paws pad across the wooden floor and pushes the door shut behind her. He shuffles slowly over to his suit. This one was made especially for today. As he runs a hand over the velvet of the jacket, he wishes, not for the first time, that he could see the colour. He’d had them make it to the colour of one of his favourites, so he knows from memory roughly what it looks like. It’s early spring and pleasant enough outside that he doesn’t need to wear an overcoat. That at least means he won’t have to hide the exuberance of the colour. It also means there’s no way anyone could miss him in a crowd, not that they could anyway. 

After getting dressed he makes his bed, feeling for and smoothing out the creases and tucking in loose sheets. Edward wants to make it look as welcoming as possible. 

He then sits down at the dresser and combs his thin hair and puts on some cologne. He feels on the surface for the card that’s leaning against his jewellery box and nods to himself. _Good_.

The last thing he does is hunt in the drawers of his dresser for the final piece to his ensemble. He eventually finds the case, and he wipes the cloth over the lenses before unfolding the stems. For the first time since he went blind, he puts on his glasses. _Now_ he’s ready to go. He puts the case back in the drawer and heads back into the living area. He leaves the bedroom door ajar. The last thing he wants is to give the impression that the room is off limits. 

Once Enigma’s harness is fitted and his white cane is in his hand, he’s ready to leave. Edward pats his jacket pocket and takes a deep calming breath. Lastly, he adjusts his bowler hat and steps outside the place he’s called home for the last fifteen years. He doesn’t have any time for sentiment, doesn’t spare it any words or even a mere thought. He has something far more important to do.

* * *

Edward sits down on the bench by the river, completely exhausted after his and Enigma’s slow amble from downtown to the other side of the river. The tiredness he experiences as he sits is bone-deep; doing _anything_ these days is a considerable effort, more so now with the last of his energy reserves running out. Even though he’d stopped along the way, the walk took a lot out of him and his chest feels extraordinarily tight. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on staying calm. 

It’s not true what they say, or at least, Edward hasn’t found it to be so. Losing his sight has not amplified his hearing. If anything, it has stayed the same. The noise of the traffic, the sloshing of the river and the screeching of the gulls are all clear as a bell, but not noticeably so. 

He takes a deep breath; the air here is as fresh as it gets in Gotham. It’s his favourite spot, here by the river. He had so many of the milestones of his life by the edge of the water. Life, death, love, regret. It feels right to return here.

He reaches down to pet Enigma as he waits. “Good girl,” he murmurs gently. 

Eventually he hears it, the tell-tale sound of a cane and a slow limping gait. He has finally arrived.

“You’re late,” Edward chides as Oswald sits down, groaning in relief. 

Oswald doesn’t miss a beat. “I apologise,” he says, and Edward hears him lean his cane against the bench. “I’m not quite as sprightly as I used to be.”

Edward wonders what he looks like now. He hasn’t seen Oswald in twenty years, hasn’t been able to see for the last five. Of course, he has followed Oswald’s life closely, and he knows roughly what he looks like from the papers, from when he could still see. The ravages of age did very little to dull his presence and prestige, if anything they only served to make him _more_ terrifying. Though grainy newspaper photos can only show so much. In this moment, he wishes more ardently than ever, that he could see. In his mind’s eye he’s the raven-haired, handsome young man he used to walk the corridors of city hall with, arm in arm, thick as thieves, surveying their dominion. So many what-ifs, so many wasted opportunities, so many good things thrown carelessly away, lost to the years forever. 

“What’s this about, Ed? I don’t see you for what, twenty-five years, and all of a sudden you deem me to be worth your time?”

“Some try to hide, some try to cheat, but time will show we will always meet. Try as you might to guess my name, I promise you’ll know, when you I do claim. What am I?” He can’t help the smile and the flourish of his hands as he poses his riddle. Old habits die hard. 

“Death,” Oswald says immediately. 

Edward’s smile widens; Oswald had always been one of the few worthy ones. “I’m going to die today,” he says, by way of explanation. 

That statement is met by silence, and as if the volume had been turned back up, the sound of the water and the gulls floods his ears again. 

“How can you possibly know that?” Oswald eventually asks. “Wait—?”

“—No time for that.” Edward interrupts. “Can’t turn back now. Death is near.”

They sit together in silence, something Edward can’t remember them ever doing, even when they were friends. Perhaps there were evenings when they did that at the mansion, but he can’t remember now. That period of his life was so fleeting when he thinks over the many long years that followed. His life has been a difficult one, and he still hasn’t known peace even in his old age. He has never been truly happy, barring those few short months they lived together. Edward takes a deep rattling breath, and prepares himself to say what he’s always needed to.

“I always loved you, you know.” He hears Oswald’s sharp inhale. “But _he_ would never let me forgive you for what you did. He never bothers me now of course. I’m too old to be of any use to him. But, by the time he left me alone, it was too late.

“I don’t know if you need it, but I do forgive you, Oswald. I’ve lived a long and lonely life, fighting you, instead of being with you. I’ve regretted it every single day. You have always been the only one.” He holds out his hand, and he hopes against hope that Oswald will take it. 

A few moments pass, but then Oswald shifts along the bench, so that the sides of their legs are touching. He slips his hand into Edward’s. 

“You old fool,” Oswald murmurs breathlessly as he kisses the back of Edward’s hand. “Even when I hated you, I still loved you.”

Edward smiles, even as his eyes fill up with tears. He tentatively puts his arm around Oswald’s shoulders, feeling his way up from his arm so he doesn’t hit him with a careless swipe, and takes his other hand out of Oswald’s, so he can touch his face.

His hands see what his eyes cannot; Oswald’s long nose, his angry eyebrows, his prominent cheekbones, his now-wiry hair, the tears underneath his eyes. 

“Tears for the Riddler,” he mutters. “Who’d have thought…”

“Not for the Riddler,” Oswald says. “For Ed. You were and will always be Ed Nygma to me.”

Edward smiles again and pulls Oswald towards him, hesitating a moment before brushing his lips against Oswald’s. He starts to lean away, fearful of pushing for too much, but then Oswald takes charge of the situation, chasing his lips and turning it into a real kiss. And _oh_ this might be what makes his heart give out ahead of schedule. It feels every bit as heavenly as he’d always imagined it would. He’s so glad he got to experience this, the actualisation of feelings locked away deep inside his heart for years, decades. Butterflies flutter madly in his stomach, and it’s been so long since he felt anything like that. The sensation feels foreign, and it’s like he’s a young man again.

“Wow,” Edward murmurs dreamily. “If you can do that to me with just a kiss, I can only imagine…”

He has imagined it, many times over the years. Sometimes he even hallucinated it, when the struggle of repressing his feelings got to be too much. Joining together like that, well. It would have been wonderful, euphoric, joyous. He regrets that he never got to explore that part of himself. But he regrets most of all that he never got to explore it with Oswald. 

Suddenly he’s afraid. Not of death, because he has been preparing for that for a while now. 

He’s afraid because he doesn’t want to leave Oswald. 

His bottom lip trembles and more tears spill from his eyes. These powerful emotions are a lot for his frail and withered body to take. He wills himself to calm down. He cannot afford to work himself up when every second is precious.

He leans back, evaluating the state of his internal organs. It’s becoming even more difficult to breathe now, the numbness slowly spreading. Edward knows he doesn’t have long. 

Even though he can’t see Oswald, he can _feel_ his worry, and he shifts closer, leaning his forehead against Edward’s. He’s not even trying to hide his sobs now. 

“Ed…” his voice is trembling. “Will you wait for me?”

“There’s nothing after death, Oswald. You know that.”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Oswald cries. “For just once in your life would you forget your damn science and humour me?”

The desperation in his voice leaves it impossible for Edward to deny him. If this is the reassurance Oswald needs to get him through the rest of his days, then Edward will give it to him. Edward uses his last bit of strength to lean forward and give him one final, shaky kiss. 

“All right, fine. I will wait for you.” He leans back against the bench and draws a final breath. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

As his last breath leaves him, his final thought is of how unbearably happy he is, that Oswald was there with him at the end. 

* * *

It isn’t long before someone, a jogger, notices him—Gotham is a busy city after all. They find Edward sitting alone with one arm stretched out on the bench, looking as though he was reaching out for someone. The jogger looks up and down the promenade and sees only other joggers and a couple. No, this man was definitely alone when he died. 

They look back at the lone figure, at the small smile on his face, and at the other hand which hangs limply off the side. His guide dog is nuzzling at it and whining sadly. 

The emergency services are alerted, rather pointlessly, even his discoverer realises that. Edward Nygma is declared dead at the scene, and a body bag is unceremoniously prepared for him.

As he’s lifted from the bench, his bowler hat topples from his head. It doesn’t fall far before the wind catches it, and carries it into the river. 

* * *

“Mr. Cobblepot?”

Oswald is sitting by the fire in the living room of his apartment above the Iceberg Lounge, wrapped in blankets and quietly reading a novel. The voice of an orderly is not enough for him to raise his head, but the panting of a dog is. He looks at the golden Labrador retriever and then up at the man who holds its leash. 

“Get that thing out of here. I don’t allow animals in the building.”

“With respect, Mr Cobblepot, sir, this dog belongs to you now.” The man, young and not yet jaded by the world, looks somewhat nervous but resolute in whatever task brought him there. 

“Belongs to me? What an earth are you talking about?” He closes his book, placing it on the arm of the chair, and reaches for his cane. He angles himself towards the man, leaning both hands on the top of it. 

“My name is Laurence Hadley of Hadley and Sons and I’m the executor of Mr. Edward Nygma’s will. This dog belonged to him. She was his guide dog. He left her to you, along with the majority of his posessions.”

Oswald’s heart constricts at the implication. “ _Left_ her to me?”

“You—you don’t know?”

Oswald doesn’t want him to say it, as that would make it real, but at the same time he just wants him to come out with it. “Know _what_?”

“Mr. Nygma passed away yesterday morning. I’m so sorry, I thought you knew…”

Oswald’s cane clatters to the floor. He tries to regulate his breathing, as it’s not good for his heart to be under so much stress so soon after the operation. His eyes fill up with tears and he suddenly feels like he’s suffocating. 

“Why would I know?” He asks, his voice coming out a mere whisper. He lays a hand over his heart, as though that could stop the elevated rate of every painful thump. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and he’s struggling to get enough air. His head is starting to throb painfully.

“He wrote you a letter several days ago, I delivered it here myself. I told them it was urgent but they said you were recovering from an operation and that it would be delivered as soon as you were awake…”

The full horror of the situation is starting to dawn on him. Edward had tried to contact him, probably knowing he didn’t have long left. He’d tried to reach out, for whatever reason—no that’s a lie—Oswald _knows_ why. And Edward had died without the reconciliation they’d both needed. He tries desperately to breathe steadily, but the pain of knowing he’s too late is a heavy weight on his chest. 

“Bring me the letter.” He croaks, throat feeling like sandpaper.

“Are you sure? You look very unwell—”

“ _Bring me the letter_!” Oswald shrieks. In a fright, Mr. Hadley drops the dog’s leash and hurries from the room. The dog doesn’t hesitate to approach Oswald, staring at him sorrowfully for a moment before lying down at his feet, warming them rather pleasantly. 

The young man returns promptly, and Oswald snatches the letter from him and tells him to get out. He says nothing and practically runs from the room. 

Oswald looks down at the green envelope with a gold embossed question mark on it. He runs his fingers over it before carefully opening it and unfolding the letter. He takes a deep breath and steels himself as he looks over the elegant script. 

_My Dear Oswald,_

_I’m sure you will notice this is not my handwriting. I would have written it myself, except it would have looked worse than a child’s because I can no longer see. I haven’t been able to see for five years now. So, either I used one of those modern computers to print something ugly or I had someone write for me. I think you will agree that the old-fashioned way looks nicer._

_I’m writing to ask you for a small favour. I know that things between us have always been contentious and complex and that we have come to an unspoken agreement to leave each other to live out our final years in peace. However, I admittedly find myself terribly lonely with only my Enigma for company. But I wonder if you might consent to meet with me on Thursday morning, say at ten o’clock? At the bench directly opposite our dock? All I ask of you is this one morning. I hope you will be there. There are things I want to say to you before we run out of time._

_I’ve missed you._

_Yours,  
Ed_

Edward has signed his name, and while it doesn’t look like a child’s writing, the penmanship _is_ shaky. 

If he’d died yesterday morning, it was probably while he was waiting for Oswald. He died alone, thinking that Oswald wasn’t interested in a reconciliation, was no longer interested in _him_ at all. 

The subsequent sob he gives way to feels like it’s been ripped from him. Edward, his soulmate, his one true love, is gone. Oswald didn’t even get to say goodbye. He holds the letter shakily in his hand, staring at it until he can’t see through his tears. Enigma whines sadly at his feet. 

Ed is gone.

_Ed._

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, overwhelmed by shock and grief. There’s anger there too, that the letter wasn’t given to him the moment he was lucid enough to read it or have it read to him. He’d only been allowed home from the hospital two days ago, and had spent much of the time sleeping while his withered old body tried to repair itself. But he would have had someone push him in a wheelchair to meet Ed. Somehow, he would have gotten to that bench. If he’d have _known_ , he would have been with him in his final moments. 

He sees movement in the corner of his eye; Hadley is dithering in the doorway. 

“Well, get on with it then.” Oswald says, deciding to get this over with. 

The man slowly approaches, retrieving documents from his briefcase. He clears his throat, as though trying to add authority to his voice in the presence of someone so important and terrifying.

“Mr. Nygma left you his entire apartment and contents, with the exception of two boxes, one each for a Miss Vance and a Miss Damfino, though these will be collected within the next two days. He left strict instructions that nothing in the apartment was to be touched until you had decided what you wanted to do with it. The apartment is exactly as he left it yesterday morning, the only person having visited it being myself, to make sure all the appliances were switched off. Here are the keys, the address and my contact information, so you can inform me when you decide what you’d like to do.”

Oswald takes the business card and the keys and nods. It’s all he can manage.

“As Mr. Nygma had no family, he has appointed your granddaughter Miss Ophelia Cobblepot the sole heiress of his fortune. A portion of it is designated for college and the rest of it she will have access to when she turns twenty-one. The funeral has already been planned for two weeks from today, so you need not concern yourself with the arrangements. I’ll have all the information sent to you in due course, I don’t want to distress you any more today. I really am very sorry for your loss Mr. Cobblepot.”

The man takes his leave, not waiting for Oswald to say anything, clearly eager to depart. Oswald peers over his knees and sees Enigma asleep at his feet. Of _course_ he would name the dog that, being the insufferable, conceited man he is. Was. 

Ed is gone.

* * *

A week passes before Oswald feels up to visiting the apartment. Martin drives him, and seems worried about leaving him there, but Oswald is insistent. He takes Enigma with him, and she lays across his lap in the back of the car. He’s always been cold, poor circulation he supposes, always finding it very difficult to get heat to seep into his bones. It’s quite wonderful to finally have a companion to keep him warm. He wonders if Edward knew that when he decided that Oswald should take over her care. 

Edward must have been paying great attention to Oswald’s life and affairs, to know he has a granddaughter. He wonders at the fact that Edward never had a family of his own. As the Riddler, he had certainly been popular with men and women alike. He could have had his pick of them. Oswald hardly dares to hope that there was only ever one person for Edward too.

Oswald had managed to assuage his hurts by eventually officially adopting Martin, and creating his own little family. Martin had of course married a lovely girl, Rose, one of a string of girlfriends that Oswald had deemed worthy of him, and they’d had a daughter, Ophelia. Of course, given Oswald’s own wealth, none of them would ever want for anything. But if Ed wanted to provide for what he obviously deemed his closest thing to family, Oswald will certainly ensure his wishes are carried out.

Martin helps Oswald out of the car, Enigma following on her lead. Martin offers his arm and Oswald holds onto him, as they head into Edward’s apartment building. Checking he’s got his bag and cane, Oswald presses the button on the elevator for the penthouse (it’s Ed, where else), and turns to Martin.

“I’ll be all right from here. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to leave. If you don’t hear from me by ten, I’ll be staying the night.”

Martin nods and leans down to pet Enigma before typing on the tablet that speaks for him. “You take care of him okay? Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Enigma barks her compliance.

Martin stands up and types some more on his tablet. “See you soon, dad. If you change your mind and you want to leave earlier, or you need anything at all, make sure you call me. I’ll come straight away.”

Oswald smiles and pats him on the shoulder as the doors to the elevator chime open. 

“Thank you,” he says as he steps inside with Enigma. Martin stands there smiling sadly until the doors close.

As the elevator climbs the eleven floors, Enigma starts to get restless. And when they step out into the hallway outside the apartment, she starts to bark excitedly. 

Oswald’s heart drops when he realises she thinks she might be about to see Ed again. 

“I’m sorry girl,” Oswald says as he fishes the keys out of his bag. He takes a deep breath before turning the lock in the door and pushing it slowly open. “He’s not here.”

The curtains have been left open and particles of dust dance in the air, visible in the shafts of light. Enigma bounds off, presumably to locate Ed, coming back shortly, an unbearable look of sadness in her eyes. 

“I know,” Oswald murmurs gently.

He closes the door behind him and edges very slowly into Edward’s home. 

Everything is in shades of green, which he should have expected. But it looks very elegant when accompanied by the rich mahoganies of the furniture. The man could never dress himself as the Riddler, but otherwise, his taste was impeccable. 

He runs a finger along the wooden top of the couch, tutting at the dust that’s been allowed to gather there. He notices puzzle books and novels in braille sitting on the coffee table. Oswald thinks it’s incredible that despite being old and blind, Edward managed to maintain his independence until the very end, his one concession being the guide dog. 

Oswald supposes that Edward must have lived there for longer than he’d been blind, for there are some very fine works of art adorning his walls, some of them quite famous pieces that art historians probably assume have been lost to the years. He limps slowly across to the kitchen, part of the large open plan room. 

Apart from the dust, it’s immaculate. He switches on and opens the fridge, which has been emptied, so he can put in the few items he’d brought with him in the event that he decided to stay the night. When he closes it he notices the fridge magnets. There are quite a few postcards, held up by puzzle piece magnets. London, Paris, Rome, Istanbul…Edward certainly managed to see a lot in his life. He imagines Edward walking the cobbled streets of the ancient cities, expression filled with wonderment. He looks at home there, in his mind’s eye. 

He belatedly notices, underneath all the postcards, a magnet of a small penguin standing in snow. He wonders how he got it, it hardly seems like the sort of thing Ed would purchase for himself. Perhaps one of the other Rogues got it for him as a joke. It seems like the most likely explanation. 

He moves away from the fridge and sets about boiling the kettle and making a cup of tea. The heating in the apartment has been turned off and he is feeling rather cold. He roots around the neatly arranged collection of teas on the shelf until he finds one to his liking. 

Tea in hand, he hobbles over to the desk opposite and sits down. He starts to open the drawers, mostly containing ordinary things like stationary, post-it notes, guns and knives. He opens the larger bottom drawer and discovers what looks like police files. He retrieves the musty folder from the top, and with a jolt realises it’s his.

_OSWALD COBBLEPOT AKA PENGUIN_

He lays the folder on the desk and takes a warming sip of tea before opening it. 

His earliest indiscretions with Fish Mooney are documented here in black and white, and the thought of her brings a smile to his face. He leafs through the pages that starkly chronicle his struggle to regain control of the Underworld time and time again. There are his incarcerations in Arkham for crimes he didn’t commit, some he did. When he gets to the end of the substantial number of police files, he finds there’s more. His heart stutters as he finds newspaper clippings that date back as far as the first files do. Almost every article written about him seems to be there, though he cringes and quickly moves on when he sees _Mayor Crumblepot_. Why would Edward collect these? It’s his entire criminal and professional life documented in a folder. He closes it and puts it back in the drawer, feeling like he’s breached Edward’s privacy, even though this all technically belongs to him now. 

Turning minutely to look at the other end of the apartment, he sees a room with the door ajar, light spilling out of it invitingly. He knows what room it is, even without being able to see inside it. Even though he’s here to look through everything, it still feels intrusive to step into his most private room. He finishes his tea and puts the cup in the sink before heading over to the door. He presses his fingertips against it, but finds he can’t go through with opening it. He sighs and leans his forehead against it. He’s not ready to see the last place Edward slept, the last place he dreamed. The last place he dressed himself in green. 

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he turns back to the living room. Enigma is watching him sadly, and instead of going through more of Edward’s things, he goes over to her and sits beside her. She immediately sits up and starts wetly nuzzling his face. The affection is what triggers the wave of grief that washes over him, and he starts to sob as he scratches behind her ears. She settles down in his lap and he continues to stroke her fur as his tears drop onto his suit. Edward should be there with them. What Oswald would give to hear him ask one of his infernal riddles, see his barely contained glee as he waited for him to give up. He can almost hear the echo of his laughter. 

He’s getting sick of crying. He’d been trying to distract himself all week long, because every time he thought about it, he would be overcome. He’s in the grip of a mourning so profound that he thinks the kind of thoughts he did when his mother died. Her loss had been so agonising there were times when he wished he could have gone with her. But he still had the rigour of youth, and a fighting spirit that kept him going. Now he’s old and nearing the end of his own life and he finds himself thinking, would it really make a difference if he left a little early? He believes in an afterlife, and he believes he could find Ed there. He _needs_ to find him there. They’ll probably antagonise each other in death as they did in life, but at least they would be _together_.

He takes a deep breath to try to compose himself and tries to concentrate on Enigma, who’s licking at his hand. Her warmth is so comforting and Oswald is so glad he has her there with him. He’d never been allowed animals in any of the tiny apartments he’d shared with his mother growing up, and thus had never really been around them, nor felt a desire for their companionship as an adult. That grew into a general assumed distaste, and he hadn’t realised what he’d been missing out on until now. At first, when Hadley had left the dog with him, he felt awkward and even a little nervous around Enigma, his reasoning being that one never knows what animals are thinking. But Enigma is so gentle in manner that Oswald couldn’t help falling for her. Even over the space of the week, she has been his main source of solace, when he couldn’t bear to look in Martin’s worried eyes. Everyone is always so sorry for his loss, always repeating the same meaningless words of condolence. No one understands. Why should he shed tears for a man he hasn’t seen in over twenty years, and who spent the time before that terrorising him? Often, when it got to be too much, he’d retreat to bed or to his chair by the fire, and Enigma would curl up beside him. 

He gently shifts her from his lap and picking up his cane, hobbles over to the book shelves. Oswald is impressed by the tomes he finds there. Many of the classics, early editions by the looks of them. There are quite a few he’d always meant to read, but never got around to. 

Under a plastic cover on a table by the door he finds a sewing machine. It clearly hasn’t been used in a long time. There is a small pile of gaudy coloured fabrics next to it. How awful it must have been for Edward to lose the ability to make his own clothes. Oswald had noted the sewing machine Edward had had in his old loft apartment all those years ago, and admires his ingenuity now as he did then. 

There is a very fine piano on the other side of the room, behind the sofa. It looks similar to the one he used to have, from what he can remember. He seats himself at it and runs a hand over the top of the keys. In his mind, he can hear them singing together, so young and joyous, both at turning points in their lives. Oswald plays a few tunes from memory, and Enigma barks happily as the uplifting tinkering melodies fill the room. He feels his lips twitching upwards for the first time since he’d entered the apartment. At the same moment he feels a draught about his neck and he shivers. He abruptly stops and looks around, but sees only Enigma poking her head over the arm of the sofa to watch him. 

It really is terribly cold in the apartment, and he wishes he’d thought to ask about the heating before he’d come. Yawning, he glances at his watch. It’s almost time for his afternoon nap. He considers the couch, but it doesn’t look particularly comfortable for sleeping. No, if he wants to have the rest he so needs, he’ll have to go into Edward’s bedroom. 

He heads over to the door again, and without pausing to think, he quickly opens it. The room is immaculate. The bed is made, and he can’t tell if the sheets have been changed or not since he left. He hopes not. He wants to feel as close to Edward as he possibly can. 

This room actually feels warm, presumably because of the huge south facing windows behind the bed. It’s a light, airy and welcoming room. He instantly feels at home and he likes this room the most.

Oswald starts to hunt for some pyjamas, he figures Edward wouldn’t mind him wearing some of his. He’d done it once before. He finds some in a drawer that are green and white plaid. He changes into them very slowly, he can’t move very fast these days, and as he turns he notices the plush forest green robe hanging on the back of the door. Once he’s changed, he runs a hand over it. It’s the most exquisite soft velvet, and Oswald can’t wait to slip into it when he wakes from his nap. 

As if somehow sensing Oswald was decent, Enigma comes into the room and waits patiently by the bed. Oswald pulls back the sheets and sighs as his old body makes contact with the glorious memory foam mattress. The pillows are feathered too, like his own. Edward’s bed is heavenly. The sheets are so soft and buttery on his skin and he absolutely adores it. He feels the bed shake a little when Enigma jumps up onto it, curling up by his feet. He wonders if this is what her routine with Ed was; if this is as comforting for her as it is for him. He falls asleep, feeling almost as though he has Ed wrapped around him, while his dog sleeps peacefully at his feet. 

He dreams.

* * *

_He’s lying there, sleeping peacefully, despite the sunlight streaming through the windows, bathing the whole room in a golden glow. He almost feels completely at peace; except there’s a lingering sadness in him that, no matter how tranquil things are, refuses to fade. If only something could soothe his hurts, he would be utterly warm and content. He doesn’t know the reason for his melancholy, can’t quite put his finger on it. All he knows is that his heart aches, and no amount of physical rest will relieve him of it. He just wants to let down the burden, if only for a few moments. He’s so tired of being sad._

_An arm slips around his waist._

_There’s someone behind him, creating a warmth that emanates throughout his entire body, and his eyes snap open. His breath hitches and he hurriedly turns over, eager to see._

_Green eyes meet brown._

_Ed smiles his boyish smile. “Hi.”_

_A broken sound escapes Oswald as he pulls Ed tight against him, pressing his face against his neck. Ed’s hands move soothingly over his back, as the man hums contentedly._

_He’s hesitant to pull back and look at him. He feels as though if he doesn’t grip him tightly, he’ll slip through his fingers._

_Oswald had so many things he wanted to say, but finds himself incapable of saying anything. As if sensing this, Ed hushes him by putting his forefinger against his lips._

_“You need to rest. We have a big night ahead of us.”_

_“Don’t go. Please don’t go.”_

_For the first time, Ed’s contented expression flickers. Instead of responding, he shuffles closer and hooks his chin over Oswald’s shoulder, just like he used to. Oswald bunches his hands in the fabric of Ed’s sweater, as if holding a piece of him could make him stay._

_Deeper sleep is encroaching on the edges of his consciousness, and as much as he tries to hold onto Ed and stave it off, he’s helpless against the tide of exhaustion._

_He drifts into an oblivion of dreamless sleep, tightly clutching the only man he’s ever loved._

He sleeps more peacefully than he has in years.

* * *

When he awakens, he’s surprised to find it’s dark in the room. He looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table and is a little shocked to see it’s early evening. He lies there a moment longer, thinking of his dream. It had been just what he needed, a balm on his weathered soul. Instead of feeling more upset at waking up alone, he feels quietly happy and comforted, as though Ed is somehow still there with him. 

He eventually sits up and sees that Enigma is no longer on the bed. Eyeing the robe on the door, he gingerly gets out of bed, limping over and slipping into it. It feels every bit as lovely as he’d imagined. On Oswald it almost touches the ground, which works out in his favour, giving him the maximum amount of warmth. He flips on the light and searches for a pair of slippers, finally spotting some under the dresser. It’s when he sits down on the stool to slip them on, that he notices it, the card propped up against what’s presumably a jewellery box. It’s like the sort of card a game show host might hold, with its big question mark and swirling patterns. He turns it over and notices a small amount of writing on the other side. He can’t read it without his glasses, so he shuffles back into the living area to find his things. He sees Enigma laying by the dog bowls and immediately feels terrible for having slept so long that she’s had to wait longer than normal for her dinner. After giving her food from Ed’s ample stock, he realises, as his stomach rumbles, that he should probably also feed himself. 

He retrieves the dinner Rose had prepared for him from the fridge and unwraps it. As he hunts around for plates and cutlery, he laments for the hundredth time that he hates having a low-cholesterol diet now. It’s necessary for his heart, but he doesn’t half miss the days when he would eat a feast worthy of the halls of Valhalla. But he needs to eat something. He can’t go on whatever scavenger hunt Ed has planned for him on an empty stomach. 

He sits down at the small round dining table and puts on his glasses before starting to eat, so he can analyse the card. 

_I’m sure you’ll have already guessed how to play this game but just in case: the answer to each riddle will lead you to the next one. I’ll start you off with an easy one._

_What has neither nails or bones, but has four fingers and a thumb?_

That one is indeed easy, and when he’s finished, with more than a little excitement, he wanders back into Edward’s bedroom to find where he keeps his gloves. He eventually finds a drawer with the pairs all laid out neatly. Something makes him go for the one purple pair in the drawer, and between them, he does indeed find another card. Breathless and giddy, Oswald sits down on the edge of the bed to read it.

_What is put on a table, cut, but never eaten?_

Oswald gets the answer to that one quickly given that he’s holding two cards in his hands. He wonders where Edward would keep playing cards, and heads back into the living room to have a look around. He eventually locates a pack in a drawer in the unit underneath the television. He hurriedly opens it, looking for another game show card, but the box is too small. Oswald takes out the first card, which of course, is the joker. The next riddle is written next to the picture. 

_I am alive without breath and cold as death. I am never thirsty but always drinking. What am I?_

“Oh come on, Ed, you’re not even trying!” Oswald mutters as he heads back to the drawer with the police files in it. He locates Fish Mooney’s file and finds another riddle card on top of the files. 

_I sleep when you’re awake, I wake when you’re asleep. Without feathers I fly. What am I?_

Oswald actually laughs at this one. The mutual bane of their existence. While the riddles are all rather easy, he appreciates that they all relate to their lives. But while the answer to this riddle is simple, he wonders what on earth in the apartment would represent a bat. He goes through the police files, but of course there isn’t one on Bruce Wayne or the Batman. Oswald looks everywhere; high and low, but can’t find anything that might hold the next riddle. After walking around the apartment twice, he slumps on the couch, frustrated. 

“I’m eighty-four, Ed, I don’t have the energy for this!” 

He decides to head over to the bookshelf to look in the dictionary for other interpretations of the word, when one of the classics on the shelves catches his eye. Dracula. Of course. Dracula can turn into a bat. Giddiness restored, Oswald carefully slides the book from the shelf and is breathless as he opens it and takes out the card. 

_Bet that one took you a little longer didn’t it! Feeling a little tired are we? All right, I’m feeling generous. Just one last riddle for you._

_I am a box with keys but no locks. With the right combination, your heart I can unlock. What am I?_

Knowing it’s the last riddle, Oswald is in no hurry to solve it. He’d rushed through the first few, overcome with excitement, feeling as though Ed were there with him, watching his progress. But he becomes all too aware that once this one has been answered, that feeling of having him in the present will be gone. He wants to savour this last riddle, but he also really wants to know what’s at the end. Enigma watches him tiredly; it is getting quite late, and he is feeling rather exhausted from the exertion of trying to find the answer to the bat riddle. Either he leaves the final riddle until morning, or he does it now. 

He knows he will sleep uneasily if he waits until morning. It has to be now. 

It doesn’t take him long to answer it. He briefly considers a safe, but when he contemplates the latter part of the riddle, he knows it’s more personal than that. It is of course, a piano. 

His first instinct is to look among the sheet music, thinking whatever Ed has led him to might be tucked in there, but he finds nothing. There are only so many places you can hide something on a piano. Whatever it is, has to be inside. Oswald rolls his eyes. Edward _would_ have to make this as difficult as possible. 

He hefts himself up onto his knees on the piano stool so he can open the lid and reach inside. He holds the lid open with one hand, fumbling about inside with the other. Eventually his fingers brush the top of paper, and he almost falls off the stool in his haste to remove it. 

It’s a letter. Edward’s last letter to him. 

Heart thundering, Oswald heads back over to the couch, holding the envelope in his hands very delicately, as though he’s afraid it might be snatched from him. He sits down and tries to will his heart to slow a bit. He won’t ever get to open a new letter from Edward again, and he wants to be calm and focused, so he can commit this to memory. With shaking hands, he opens it.

_Congratulations on completing my puzzle! I knew you could do it. I’m disappointed it took so long though. You’re definitely getting slow in your old age._

_On a serious note, thank you for coming. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. There’s no one else in the world I’d entrust my precious things to, and I know you’ll find the right answer as to what to do with what I have left you. I hope, and I am confident, that you will grow to love Enigma. She has been a faithful companion to me, and a great comfort at in my solitary last years. I hope she will be the same for you, though I know you will not be alone like I was._

_I hope you were there, by the river. I’m dead now, and I’m not sure I would have known whether you were there at the time, either. My mind has been unreliable in its stability for most of my life, even more so in my old age. Blind people can still hallucinate. Who knew? I’m sure you would have made every effort to meet me, and if you weren’t there, I’m sure you had a good reason. Though what could possibly be more important than me?_

_If you weren’t there, I want you to know that I did love you. As I dictate this, I do love you. The only time in my life I’ve been whole was with you. That scared me, and it scared him too. Enough that my whole life has gone by without knowing what it was like to have the love and support of another, to go to sleep and wake up feeling loved. I’ve often envied the little family you made for yourself. More than once I yearned to be a part of it. I wish I’d been brave enough to reach out, and that it hadn’t took my imminent death for me to finally find the courage to contact you. I hope you won’t be angry that I am gone. I hope you will understand and find it within yourself to forgive me._

_I’ve often wondered if you still feel for me, the way you did long ago. I think, and I hope that you do. You’ve never found anyone else. Which is hardly surprising, I suppose, when there is no one else in the world like me._

_Well, now is the time to say goodbye, “old friend.” No more riddles. Thank you for the ride Mister Penguin. Of all the things I’ve done in my life, the best thing I ever did was aggravate you that day at the GCPD. It was the start of something magnificent, a story for the Gotham history books. There will never be another tragedy quite like ours._

_Farewell, Oswald.  
Ed_

Oswald traces his fingers over the words. _I do love you_. All these years, Ed had loved him. Ed had gone to that bench, on his last day, not simply wanting to reconcile, but to finally tell Oswald that he loved him. Oswald thinks he might have always known on a deep level, but a love unacknowledged is almost as good as a love unrequited. Once Oswald buried those feelings, he never allowed himself to entertain the idea ever again. To have Edward’s love for him confirmed when it’s too late to spend any time together, well, it’s agonising. Why did their story have to end this way?

Oswald holds the letter to his chest, now his single most important possession. His only proof that the only man he’s ever loved, loved him back. 

He wipes his eyes, and leans back on the sofa, trying to calm his breathing. What if Ed hadn’t reached out or sent him the letter? What if Oswald had to go to his grave without ever knowing there was someone out there who had felt this way about him? Who _could_ feel this way about him? His mother had always been convinced there was someone out there for him. And she was right. 

He’s suddenly so immensely grateful that Edward found the courage to tell him how he’d always felt. It must have been difficult for him, for as far as Oswald knows, Edward never came out like he did. Oswald had lived his life as an openly gay man, but he never heard tell of Edward doing the same. The man kept a lot of secrets and was always a cryptic man of mystery. That _was_ his M.O., Oswald supposes. 

But it was incredibly brave, to be entirely honest with himself, before the end. He could easily have carried his secrets with him into the dark. But he took a chance, and despite having terrorised each other for most of their lives, tried to mend the rift, not even knowing whether Oswald still felt the same way about him. 

Oswald wishes he could have told Edward just how much he still loves him. The feelings were buried, yes, but still very much present. Oswald did what he had to, in order to move on with his life. 

He looks absently at the shadow the lamp casts across the ceiling. Oswald had been _loved_. He tries to draw strength from that fact, rather than think about the life they could have had together. It’s hard not to be crushed under the weight of what might have been; and it’s incredibly tempting to give into the chasm of crippling despair that’s opening up before him. Oswald knows that if he falls into it, he won’t ever come out again. He’s teetering on the edge, and he knows only sheer willpower will get him through the night. He has to _want_ to live. He can’t think about wanting to find Ed again. 

He thinks instead of Martin, his daughter-in-law, and his granddaughter. He doesn’t want to leave Martin before he has to. He wants to watch Ophelia grow for as long as he can. He smiles fondly as he thinks of how much she loves to hear his outlandish tales of a life antagonising the legendary Batman. He still has so many stories to tell her. Maybe eventually he’ll tell her the greatest story of all. 

Slowly, he pulls himself back from the edge. He’s tired and heartbroken, but because of his family, he has every intention of waking up in the morning. It’s long past ten now, and Martin will know he’s chosen to stay the night. Oswald hopes he doesn’t worry too much. He could see the concern in his face as the elevator doors closed; knew that Martin was terrified Oswald wouldn’t survive his grief. 

Oswald would be lying if he said there weren’t times when he’d thought that too. He closes his eyes for a few moments. _He’s still here._

He places the letter back in the envelope and heads back into the bedroom. He places it on the nightstand, putting the clock on top of it, as if frightened it might be carried away by something in the night. 

Enigma jumps onto the bed, her warmth and weight beside his feet pleasant and reassuring. 

He’s physically and mentally exhausted, and it doesn’t take long for him so drift off to sleep.

* * *

_When he awakens it’s still dark. As he slowly opens his eyes, he becomes aware of a haunting melody drifting on the air. There’s a deep melancholy in his heart at the familiar refrains. He gets to his feet and heads into the living room, the music gradually getting louder._

_Oswald stops short, heart in his mouth at the sight before him. Edward is seated at the piano stool, his nimble fingers dancing across the keys, like the memory of this moment in his mind. They were younger then, eager to leave and prove themselves, too young to understand how important they would become to each other. Now though, unlike then, they’re calm, at peace, and there are no wars to come between them._

_Oswald wishes he could make himself move closer. But all he can do is watch as the music breaks him apart, every single note touching his heart._

_“Oswald!” Edward calls suddenly, without looking at him. “Don’t just stand there—your part’s coming up!”_

_Finally, Oswald makes himself move. He approaches Edward cautiously, terrified he’s going to disappear. Edward shuffles up so that Oswald can sit beside him on the piano stool._

_“Ready?” Edward asks._

_Oswald tears his gaze away from Edward’s profile and lifts his hands so they’re above the appropriate keys, knowing instinctually when to come in. He starts to play, and he sees Edward grin in the corner of his eye. Their hands move effortlessly over one another, the melody seamless in its perfect harmony._

_The joy he feels fills all the dark places in his mind with light. It’s such a simple thing, so innocent and honest. In a life soaked in blood and death, there were very few moments like this._

_When they take their hands away, the music doesn’t stop. Oswald takes one of Ed’s hands in both of his, and leans his head against his shoulder. Together they watch the keys play on without them, the strains turning into a melody almost unbearably poignant. Oswald can feel their ghosts move around them; fractured moments of a beginning neither of them fully understood._

_“I can bring tears to your eyes and resurrect the dead. What am I?”_

_Edward lays his head on top of Oswald’s._

_“Memory.”_

* * *

When Oswald wakes up the next morning, the first thing he does is fumble on the nightstand for the letter, sighing in relief when his fingers make contact with it. He accidentally hits Edward’s alarm clock, which informs him the time is nine fifteen. Oswald had slept for a long time. But his mind is filled with a clarity of purpose he hasn’t felt in a long time. He knows what he’s going to do, and he can’t wait to get started. 

Noticing Enigma is not on the bed, he gets up and heads into the kitchen to feed her, all of his bones cracking as he leans down to pet her. He turns on the coffee machine and flips open his phone, calling speed dial one while he waits for it to pour. 

“ _Dad_?” comes a female voice. Rose always answers their phone since Martin can’t. 

“Yes, it’s me.” Oswald can hear some sniffling in the background and he knows it’s Martin. Rose’s own voice sounds shaky. He feels awful that he’s put them through this.

“We were so worried about you. Are you okay? Do you want Martin to come and get you?”

“Yes, I’m fine dear. I’ll be ready in about an hour if that’s all right?” 

“Of course it is. He’ll see you then.”

He hangs up the phone and takes his coffee over to the table, where he’d left his bag. He rummages through it for the business card Mr. Hadley had given him. Putting on his glasses, he carefully dials the man’s number. Before he hits call, he takes a last look around the apartment. He looks at all the riddle cards spread haphazardly on the sofa. He looks at all the beautiful books. And finally, he looks at the piano. 

He presses the button.

He answers on the third ring.

“Yes, Mr. Hadley? I’m calling to let you know that you don’t need to take any action with the apartment or its contents. I will be moving in.”

It’s about time Martin and Rose had some privacy anyway.

* * *

A short while later, Oswald and Enigma are waiting patiently outside the building. Martin arrives earlier than Oswald had specified, which doesn’t surprise him. Martin has barely parked the car when he jumps out and strides up to Oswald, his bottom lip trembling. Oswald can tell from the bags under his eyes that he hasn’t slept all night. 

Martin grabs him in such a fierce hug, it almost knocks the wind out of him. Oswald hugs him back, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “My boy,” Oswald murmurs, attempting to soothe him. Martin’s silent sobs subside somewhat at the endearment. He steps back and Oswald lays a hand on his shoulder. He was going to attempt to say something witty, to diffuse the tension, but he can’t find the words. He tries to communicate what he wants to say with a smile instead. Martin’s answering nod says he understands. He offers his arm and helps Oswald into the car. 

No, Oswald isn’t ready to check out yet. Edward will have to wait.

* * *

He has bad days, and he has…less bad days. The day he finds out the contents of Edward’s autopsy report is a particularly bad one. It only confirms what he’s come to expect for a while now, because he’d acquired Edward’s entire medical history shortly after returning to the Iceberg Lounge.

Edward had died of a self-administered lethal injection, following a diagnosis of brain cancer two weeks prior. He’d had a grade four malignant tumour in his head that would have likely killed him within the year. It is a comfort to Oswald that Edward was able to take control of his own fate and avoid the pain and humiliation that slowly losing control of himself would have brought. But what Oswald finds the hardest thing to cope with is that Edward didn’t go to him for support. He only reached out _after_ he’d made the decision to end his own life. Oswald wishes he could have been there to hold his hand during doctor’s appointments, to look after him and soothe him when the headaches were too much. Oswald would never have left his side. 

But given his own heart condition, his recent operation and the timeline of Edward’s diagnosis, it would have been difficult, if not impossible to really care for Edward. Fate had conspired to keep them apart, once again.

Oswald realises that the choice must have been really difficult for Edward. He doubts he would have wanted Oswald to watch him suffer. Torn between wanting to tell Oswald he loved him, but not wanting to burden him with the pain of seeing him die… Oswald can’t imagine how he must have agonised over it, all the while faced with the terrible reality of his own mortality.

For a time, Oswald wonders at his decision to meet, only for Oswald to lose him. But the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Edward didn’t want to risk Oswald persuading him to live, knowing that with their feelings finally out in the open, it would be a tempting prospect. But he didn’t want a life with Oswald—not like that. And Oswald can’t resent him for it. 

The one thing Edward allowed himself was not to die alone, but he didn’t even have that in the end. Edward had wanted Oswald to be there with him in his final moments, to help ease his fear. That knowledge almost breaks Oswald. 

* * *

The funeral does not go as Oswald expects. For one, there are a lot more guests than he had imagined. All of the remaining rogues are in attendance. Query and Echo too. Everyone is wearing something green, despite not having been asked. A space has been left at the front, and he knows it’s for him. Oswald didn’t travel in a car with the casket. No one did. Edward didn’t want a big procession. He wanted to keep things as brief as possible, and there are minimal flowers and no portrait. This surprises no one more than Oswald: the man always went over the top with everything, especially his own image. 

Everyone is silent as Martin and Rose lead him to the altar, to Edward. Several feet away, he tells them he’ll go the rest of the way alone. He limps slowly towards it, his steps echoing in the big cold space. Oswald reaches out a shaking hand to touch the polished wood. It’s the closest he’s been to Edward in years. The church is so silent one could hear a pin drop. 

“I love you,” Oswald whispers through his tears, his voice barely there, as he leans down to kiss the casket. 

He takes a moment to gather himself before returning to Martin and Rose. They sit on either side of him. Rose puts her arm around him and Martin holds his hand. Neither of them let go throughout the service. Mercifully, it is a short one, with only Diedre and Nina speaking. They tell amusing stories from their adventures with Edward; even Oswald manages a smile at some of his antics. They are the only people who ever really spent an extended period of time with him over the years, and he can tell from the way they speak about him that they respected him and were deeply fond of him. 

The worst part of the proceedings is when Edward’s casket is lowered into the ground. Enigma, who is allowed to join this part, whines heartbreakingly the entire time. When Martin tries to lead her away from the gravesite, she resists. She lays down at the grassy verge, leaning her head on her front legs, and closing her eyes. 

Martin looks to Oswald and Rose, unsure what to do. 

“Let’s give her a moment,” Oswald says.

Martin nods and unclips her leash, and they walk together back to the car. Oswald closes his eyes at the sound of Enigma pining for her Edward.

Oswald sits in the back of the car with the door left open, Martin and Rose in the front. He's slumped against the corner of the seat, staring out the window, unseeing. Enigma's haunting, mournful whines can still be heard from the car. After about twenty minutes, Enigma jumps up onto the back seat. She drapes herself across Oswald’s lap and lays there, utterly despondent. Oswald strokes her head gently. He hopes it gives her some comfort. 

* * *

The understated funeral arrangements suddenly make sense when Oswald walks into the hall that’s been hired for the wake. There’s a glittering disco ball, everything is draped in green and gold, and there are photos of Edward in his youth everywhere. His dazzling smile greets Oswald’s eyes from every available surface, and Oswald can’t help chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all. He is even more amused when he learns you only get drinks free at the bar if you answer riddles correctly. This disgruntles many of the guests. How Edward would have laughed.

After everyone has gone, Oswald sneaks back into the hall, collects all the photographs, and takes them home with him.

* * *

Almost a month to the day of the funeral, Oswald moves out of the Iceberg Lounge. Organising all his things and deciding what he wanted to take with him took a considerable amount of time. Martin repeatedly asking if Oswald was sure throughout the entire process didn’t help. Oswald knows with absolute certainty that this is the right thing to do. He signs over ownership of the Lounge to Martin. It’s his home and livelihood now. Oswald is proud that he’s been able to provide that for Martin and his little family. 

All his things have already been moved to the apartment, all that’s left is for Martin to drive him over there. The goodbyes are tearful, and dear Rose worries and fusses over him as usual. Ophelia is simply excited to have somewhere she can go and stay when she gets fed up with her parents. She’s only just entering her teenage years, but he can already tell she’s going to be a rebel. She reminds him a little of Selina Kyle.

Saying goodbye to Martin is the hardest. Which is ridiculous, because they’ll visit each other all the time. His new apartment is only a few blocks from the Iceberg Lounge. Oswald hugs Martin tight nonetheless. 

“I’ll be all right,” Oswald reassures him. Martin nods. Oswald has tried his best to explain it and he thinks Martin understands. 

“I’ll see you soon. You take care of the Lounge.”

Martin grins and nods again. He watches Oswald and Enigma head into the building, waiting, as he did before, until the elevator doors close, before turning and heading back to his car. 

This time, Enigma is calm, very much a reflection of Oswald’s own mood. As he fishes the key out of his pocket, he smiles at her. 

He lets them into the apartment and feels an overwhelming sense of rightness wash over him. Enigma trots over to the couch and curls up comfortably, preparing herself for a nap. 

Oswald closes the door and looks around at the new amalgamation of his and Edward’s things. 

He smiles to himself, not quite feeling content, but at peace. “Ed, I’ve come home.”

**Author's Note:**

> August 2018 update:  
>    
> 
> 
> At long last I have received my prize :D Thanks Vero!


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